Then before the spread feast, comes the trempée, the health-drinking, a very significant function in a wine country. But first they clink glasses—for franc Bourguignon, on ne boit jamais sans trinquer—and having drunk, clink again, and all relatives and intimates—relatives embrace cousins, as the boy's latin book darkly hints—give the bride the baiser de la trempée.
Then there is feasting, more healths, more music; then a general cry for the farandole, and in an instant they are wreathing it, uninvited and all, in hall, and lane, and street; fife and tambourine and flying feet are at it with an élan that even that sunny land of song and dance, Provence, would find it hard to equal. In the evening there is a great ball given to the guests, and, on the next days, more processions, and a ball for the uninvited, at which the bride and bridegroom appear for a few minutes, open the dancing with a contre-danse, and then withdraw.
The third day's round is somewhat similar, but there are fewer ladies present—many of them have had enough—and one notices, walking behind the drums and fifes, an individual carrying a laurel—not a branch, but a bush, well-grown and decked with ribbons. At the maison paternelle a halt is made, and all gather round to admire the laurel. Then he calls for the strongest volunteers to assist the bearer.
"Are you ready, you six?" "Yes," in six voices.
"You know the job is none so easy—dangerous too?"
"No fun if it wasn't."
"To it, then."
"Tie it well!"
"And as high as you can!"
"Come down now—and take care!"